


Mirror-and-Steve Boy?

by elumish



Series: Mirror-and-Steve Boy [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was only tortured once, and it wasn’t that—” And now all of the Avengers—and the Winter Soldier—are staring at him, so no more down that line of conversation. “Anyway. I just wanted to tell you so you didn’t freak out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror-and-Steve Boy?

**Author's Note:**

> This is set immediately after Mirror-and-Steve Boy and is told from Stiles's POV.

Stiles is pretty sure this whole thing is a mistake. Not that he really had much choice, but following the Winter Soldier—the guy who shot Captain America—is probably near the top of the list of really fucking stupid things Stiles has done in his lifetime. Even if the Avengers are there, and even if they seem awfully friendly with the Winter Soldier.

Especially Captain America, who called him Bucky and gave him a hug and is now sitting almost-touching next to him on the other side of the ship (vertical-takeoff plane?).

“I’m Sam,” the guy next to Stiles says, offering him a hand to shake.

Stiles takes it and, well, he feels like a normal human being at least. “Stiles. Are you an Avenger, too?”

“Nah, man, I mostly just cook them breakfast.” It’s clear some sort of inside joke, because he smiles. “I’m kind of more like an honorary Avenger. No powers, but I have a badass set of wings. You’re taking this pretty in stride.”

Stiles leans his head back against the wall behind him. “I guess I’ve gotten used to weird stuff happening. Do you know why I’m—what’s going on?”

Sam shakes his head. “I wish I did. As a warning, Stark’s probably going to want to pull some of your blood, check to see if your friend’s theory is right. How old are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen.”

The pilot makes an alarmed noise. “Are you telling me we have a kidnapped seventeen-year-old on the Quinjet?”

“Technically,” Tony Stark puts in from where he’s playing with a tablet near the front of the plane, “he agreed to come with us.”

“Seriously?” The pilot twists around slightly, just enough that Stiles can catch a glimpse of his face, and—

“Holy fuck.”

Sam and Stark look at him in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s Hawkeye.”

The pilot stiffens. “You know who I am?”

“I heard about you every day for a month after the Battle of New York. My best friend’s—the girl who was dating my best friend, she was an archer, and when she saw the footage of you she freaked out, started shooting from buildings. More.”

Hawkeye asks, “Was?” and that’s when the panic hits.

“It’s not surprising, he thinks distantly, somewhere behind the constant recitation of _I killed her, it’s my fault_ in his head, because the situation already had him freaked to hell and thinking about Allison always makes stuff worse, but shit, this is bad timing to have a panic attack, with the Avengers all staring at him like they _know_ , they know he killed her, they know he did it, they know the blood is on his hands even if he didn’t hold the sword himself, and he needs his hands to be clean and he wants them not to be able to see and he just wants it all to go away.

He knows he’s hyperventilating, can hear his gasping over whatever they’re saying that’s all running together like too much paint, all making brown, and maybe he’ll get himself to pass out, but then he’ll be at the mercy of someone else, so he forces himself to slow down, to unclench one hand from his throat and the other from the handle of the gun he still has on him, because he’s here, he’s on a plane with people, he’s not trapped in his own head playing Go with a dead man, and he has to breathe.

Somewhere next to him, someone asks, “What just happened?” and someone else says, “Panic attack.”

Stiles shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes, which are still closed because he really doesn’t want to see the looks in their eyes. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem, kid,” and huh, that’s Stark. “Happens to the best of us.”

Stiles swallows. “I shouldn’t have this gun on me. Someone else needs to take it.” Before he shoots someone by accident.

Sam says, “I’ll take it,” and then, from way closer than Stiles was expecting, the Winter Soldier says, “Nyet.”

Stiles opens his eyes in time to see the woman who was standing near the pilot step towards them and start a rapid-fire conversation with the Winter Soldier in Russian. It’s too fast for Stiles to follow; he hasn’t spoken Russian with anyone since his mom died, and he’s lost basically all of it since then, but he thinks he hears the words ‘protect’ and ‘boy.’ Finally, in English, she says, “I’ll take the gun.”

Stiles pulls it out and hands it to her, then turns his attention to the Winter Soldier, who’s standing maybe a foot and a half in front of him, looking glowery. Captain America is next to him, his eyes fixed on the Winter Soldier, but he looks Stiles when he notices Stiles’s staring.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” he says, sounding very America-y. But good America-y, not scary nationalistic get-all-the-Commies/Jews/Mexican/black-people-out-of-America-y. “We’ll get you back home as soon as possible.”

And speaking of home, Stiles should call his dad before Scott convinces him he’s been kidnapped and that they need to issue an Amber Alert. Though that would be entertaining, cops trying to arrest Captain America for kidnapping. “Thanks. I need to, uh, call someone. My dad. I need to call my dad. Because he’s the sheriff. And he’ll get really mad if I disappear without telling him. Because stuff happens, and then you end up with dead bodies, and I’m going to stop talking because you’re all staring at me.”

“How many dead bodies have you actually dealt with?” Stark asks, and huh, that’s a pretty good question.

“Is this counting people I don’t know—or, I guess, didn’t know, if they’re dead?” And they’re staring again. He probably needs to stop sounding so blasé about stuff like this.

Stark shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. “I was kidding, but either, I guess.”

“I can think of five off the top of my head that I knew, but I’m probably— _anyway_. New topic. Phone call. Is that going to be okay, or is it going to cause a problem with the plane or whatever the FAA thinks happens?”

“Please,” Stark scoffs, “my planes won’t go down because you make a phone call.”

He would rather not do this with all of the Avengers listening, but whatever.

His dad picks up with a calm, “Shariff Stilinski.”

Stiles resists the urge to start babbling. “Hi, dad.”

“Stiles?”

“So this is a preemptive call so you don’t hear this from Scott when he comes freaking out ot you in like five minutes.”

“What did you do?”

“Technically I didn’t—so there are some people who need my help.” And there, that isn’t too much of a lie. “I’m with them right now, but it’s okay I’m fine, and hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

“I don’t want you to come home having been tortured—”

Jesus. “I was only tortured once, and it wasn’t that—” And now all of the Avengers—and the Winter Soldier—are staring at him, so no more down that line of conversation. “Anyway. I just wanted to tell you so you didn’t freak out.”

His dad huffs out what’s almost a laugh. “Yeah, well, you failed at that. I expect you to check in by six, and you have school on Monday.”

Yes. Right. School. “I’ll be there.” And then, because he’s scared, “I love you.”

“I love you too, even if you’re going to drive me to a heart attack. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He grins at the phone. “When do I do anything stupid?” And then he hangs up and pockets his phone, because he doesn’t need an answer to that question.

Tony Stark stares at him. “Torture?”

Very much not Stiles’s favorite topic, so he just shrugs. “It wasn’t that bad. I mostly got beat up and watched my friends get tortured. I mean, the second part sucked, but, yeah.”

Sam leans towards him. “You should have told him who you’re with, made sure he would hold us responsible for bringing you back safely.”

“Scott’s going to tell him, anyway. And what can a small-town sheriff do to Tony Stark, Hawkeye, Black Widow, Captain America, and the _Winter Soldier_?”

“True.” Sam and Captain America turn to glare at Stark, who says, “What, he’s right. Though, you know kid, you could call Gramps—and wow, for once that might be literal—by his name.”

“That seemed a bit…presumptuous. And no offense, but I don’t actually think you’re my grandfather. I mostly just came along with you guys so we could get out of the forest before it turned into The Mighty Avengers versus Werewolves, issue one.”

Captain America shrugs a shoulder. “I’m not offended, though I’ve learned to reserve judgement when it comes to Tony’s hunches.”

“Ha, see?”

“And you can call me by my name.”

There’s silence for a second, and then Hawkeye says, “We’re about four minutes out. Has anyone figured out what we’re going to do once we’re on the ground, especially considering we’re now carting around the Winter Soldier and a seventeen-year-old kid?”

The Winter Soldier turns to Black Widow and says something in Russian, and she says something back, and damn it they’re talking about him, so he snaps, “Говорят медленно.”

They stare at him, and then Sam asks, “You speak Russian?”

Surprisingly, it’s the Black Widow who quirks her mouth into a smile and says, “Not really. Кто научил тебя?”

“My mother.” He grimaces. “My understanding is better than my speaking, though you all talk too fast.”

The Winter Soldier looks at him for a second, then turns to Black Widow and says, slowly, “Я не оставлю его одного.”

She shakes her head. “Им нужно будет допросить тебя, и ты не хочешь, чтобы он присутствовал при этом.”

“Он должен быть в безопасности.”

“Я сказал вам: Я буду защищать его.”

The Winter Soldier gives her a long look, then says, “Хорошо. Тогда ты останешься с ним.”

Stiles didn’t follow that entire thing, because the conversation definitely involved words he never learned, but the gist was clear. “I can look after myself.”

There’s silence for a second, and then the Winter Soldier _laughs_ ; the look on Captain America’s face is breathtaking, and holy shit, maybe they were a thing. Captain America and Captain Communism. How would that even work? “Mirror-and-Steve boy. Don’t be stupid like Steve. Trashcan lids aren’t shields.”

Captain America flinches, hard, then scrubs his hand across his face. “I can help protect him too, Buck.”

The Winter Soldier looks blank, then turns to Black Widow. “if he’s not in my sight, he’s in yours. Mirror-and-Steve boy does not die.”

“Почему вы доверяете мне?”

He looks momentarily confused. “Ты Наталья.”

“Starting our descent, folks, I hope we have a plan.”

Stark jolts to his feet, clapping his hands; it looks like the Winter Soldier draws a knife, though he doesn’t do anything with it. “So. Debrief for Gramps version two including a comprehensive look at that arm of yours—don’t give me that look, Capsicle, I need to make sure it’s not going to kill him or us—and Bruce-y can pull some blood from the kid here—”

“Nyet.”

Stark doesn’t even look at the Winter Soldier. “—or the kid can draw his own blood, whatever floats your boat, but we need to see if he really is yours and Cap’s kid and that’s the best way to do it.”

There’s no way in hell Stiles is drawing his own blood, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. For right now, the plane is landing—vertically—on a huge piece of property, the hatch sliding open almost before they’ve touched down; the Winter Soldier lurches out of the plane, Captain America, Tony Stark, and Sam following close behind and leaving Stiles alone with just Black Widow and Hawkeye.

Stiles stands, really glad he doesn’t still have the gun on him. “So.”

Black Widow smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Stiles. My name is Natasha.”

“And I’m Clint,” Hawkeye puts in, finishing shutting off the plane and then turning to look at Stiles. “Clint Barton. You look remarkably not freaked out, you know? Usually, we get more screaming. Or swooning.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Believe me, I’ve done my share of screaming. And swooning. But after being possessed by a fox demon for a while, the Avengers seem less scary. Though the Winter Soldier—he’s terrifying.”

Natasha inclines her head slightly. “That he is. Shall we go? This isn’t the most comfortable place.”

“Safe, though.” When Natasha looks at him, Clint shrugs. “What? It’s not like Stark’s houses don’t have a history of being attacked.”

“It is safe. And we will need to do the blood test.” She starts to head out, looking back and forth, and Clint gestures for Stiles to go next. Clint follows behind him, grabbing what looks like a compound bow and quiver and then sticking close to Stiles’s back. It’s weirdly, disconcertingly reminiscent of the way the pack tries to protect him, and he’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.

“I’m sorry for freaking you out earlier,” Clint says as they trek their way across the massive lawn to the sprawling modern-looking house that fills up most of what Stiles can see.

Stiles looks back at him and shakes his head; Clint looks like he’s trying to see everything at once which, because he’s Hawkeye, might be possible. “It was only a matter of time before something triggered me, I was so freaked out. And really, it wasn’t you. Thinking about Allison without warning tends to set me off. How did you find him, anyway? The Winter Soldier, I mean. Because I’m assuming you didn’t just stumble on him by accident.”

“We were tracking a spree of bodies paired with suspicious reports of a man with a metal arm.”

Huh. “So he did kill all those people. We knew he killed the last one—that’s how we found him—but we were wondering.”

“We think they were Hydra.”

“Some of them might have been, but at least a few of them I think he killed to protect us—me. We had thought it might be a rival hunter, but that never made much sense.”

They’re almost at the front of the house, and the door swings open with a disembodied (terrifying) voice announcing, “Welcome back, Agent Romanoff, Agent Barton.”

“Haven’t been an agent for months, JARVIS,” Clint says, but he’s smiling. “And this is Stiles.”

“Indeed,” the voice says, “Sir informed me that you would be joining us, Mr. Stilinski.” A panel slides back in the door frame, revealing what looks like a screen. Please place your hand on the scanner so that I can take your biometric information and set your access.” There’s not really another choice, so Stiles does that, and then the voice announces, “Your access has been set. Sargent Barnes is currently being examined in the Hulk’s guest room, and Sir believes it would be prudent to not pass by there while proceeding to Medical Lab One, where Dr. Banner is currently waiting.”

“Thanks.” Clint gestures down the hall, and they start walking. And maybe later Stiles will actually look around at the wide and wildly assorted range of stuff lining the hallway, but for right now, it’s just huge, and he feels small. And a little shaky, though that’s more a product of having just recently had a panic attack than anything else. Which almost means he needs water and preferably some ibuprofen for the oncoming headache, neither of which he’s likely to get anytime soon.

The medical lab doesn’t look super hospital-y, which he approaches; between the mess that has been the past couple of years and the nightmares that was his mother’s health degradation, he’s not a huge fan of hospitals. Or of doctors, which is why it’s awesome that Dr. Banner is neither in a lab coat nor holding a clipboard.

Instead, he’s shaggy-headed in a purple button-down shirt and khakis, his entire body hunched over like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Which is disconcertingly like Isaac.

So he treats him like Isaac, smiling and offering his hand and saying, “Hi, I’m Stiles.”

Dr. Banner looks at him says, “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

Right. Stiles shoves his hand back in his pocket. “No problem. You need my blood, right?”

Natasha steps forward. “Barnes doesn’t want you taking it.”

“Well, I’m not taking my own blood, and I’d rather someone with Doctor in their name. So unless one of you is a doctor—or a nurse or a vet—I’d really prefer Dr. Banner be the one to stab me with a needle and pull blood from me.”

Clint blinks at him. “You want a veteran?”

“Veterinarian.”

“Ah.” Clint shrugs. “We’re both trained medics.”

“I’d still rather Dr. Banner do it.” Stiles looks at him; he’s still making himself small and non-threatening. “If that’s okay with you.”

He nods. “I’m not actually a medical doctor—it’s a PhD, not an MD—but I am highly experienced in drawing blood. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“Because you’re the Hulk?” He flinches. “Sorry. It’s actually kind of comforting, to be honest.”

Dr. Banner blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

Right, that probably wouldn’t make sense to other people. “Most of my best friends are werewolves, which means that they’re all basically slightly smaller rage monsters. Not that I’m saying you’re a rage monster. But it’s—anyway, being around people who occasionally freak out and turn super strong is basically like home.” He holds out his arm, because he doesn’t really want to continue this conversation. “Here.”

Dr. Banner guides him to a chair, where he sits down, rolls his sleeve up, and squeezes his eyes shut. Because passing out right now would suck.

“You okay?”

Stiles nods, even though the pounding has started in his head and his mouth feels dry and a little bit fuzzy. “Yeah, I’m good. Just not a huge fan of blood.” There’s coldness on the inside of his elbow, then a pinch. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I just need to say it once.” There’s a drawing sensation, and he bites down hard on his lip to give himself something else to focus on. “I really don’t like blood.”’

The pinching stops, and then a band-aid goes on his arm and Dr. Banner says, “All done.”

Stiles opens his eyes and hops off the chair, then stumbles as his vision goes vague. Not drugging vague, just head-rush vague.

“Whoa.” Clint’s hand closes around his upper arm, stabilizing him. “You good?”

Stiles nods. “Any chance I can have some water?”

“Of course.” Dr. Banner slides the vial of blood into a slot, then says, “JARVIS, can you run this against what we have on record from Steve and, when you get it, Sargent Barnes?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner.”

The vial disappears, and Dr. Banner walks over to a sink and grabs a glass to fill up before handing it off to Stiles. “Do you need anything else?”

Stiles swallows the water in his mouth, then asks, “You got any ibuprofen? My head is killing me.”

Dr. Banner starts rummaging through a cabinet, and Stiles sinks down back into the chair. The adrenaline fall from his previous panic-induced rush is catching up with him now, and wow, this is really unfortunate and ill-timed.

A pill is dropped in his hand, and he swallows it and some more water without looking at it; that’s probably a bad idea, because he could just have swallowed basically anything, but if they had wanted to hurt him, they could have done so already.

“We should have an answer in a couple minutes,” Dr. Banner says into the silence, and Stiles puts his head in his hands and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there will probably be another one. I have no idea when, because I write these by hand on my commutes and during that one class when I'm not allowed to use my laptop.
> 
> Thank you for Edariel's help with the Russian (other than Stiles's Russia, because that's intentionally wrong).
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Кто научил тебя?--Who taught you?  
> Я не оставлю его одного.--I won't leave him alone.  
> Им нужно будет допросить тебя, и ты не хочешь, чтобы он присутствовал при этом.--They need to debrief you, and you don't want him there for that.  
> Он должен быть в безопасности.--He must be kept safe.  
> Я сказал вам: Я буду защищать его.--I told you: I'll protect him.  
> Хорошо. Тогда ты останешься с ним.--Fine. Then you stay with him.  
> Почему вы доверяете мне?--Why do you trust me?  
> Ты Наталья.--You are Natalia.


End file.
